The Company

by Sally Spencer

‘Not much in there,’ Andy said, sliding the filing cabinet drawer closed. ‘She dunna seem to be much of a woman for paperwork.’

  ‘No,’ I said dully. ‘I don’t think she is.’

  But holding that letter in my hand, I asked myself if I really knew anything about her.

  ‘Time tae check oot the rest o’ the place,’ Andy said.

  I nodded and, almost in a trance, walked to the nearest of the doors which led off the living room. I turned the handle, but it was locked.

  ‘Now tha’s what I call a gud piece o’ work,’ Andy said, gazing admiringly at the lock. ‘You go an’ check the other rooms, while I work out a way ta get this booger open.’

  The bathroom was neat, tidy and totally devoid of any clues. Marie’s bedroom told me nothing, either. I did note that some of her outfits were missing, but that just said she’d gone away – which I knew already.

  I was checking under the bed when Andy appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I think you’d better come an’ see what I’ve found,’ he said gravely.

  And suddenly I was very, very afraid.

  ‘It’s not … she’s not …’ I managed to gasp.

  ‘I’ve nae found her body, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Andy assured me, ‘but you’d still better prepare yourself for a shock.’

  In trepidation, I crossed the living room again, and forced myself to enter the second bedroom. It was smaller than the one I’d just been in, and there was no furniture at all. Instead, corkboard filled every inch of wall – and to that corkboard were pinned a large number of newspaper articles, photographs and documents.

  I examined the closest ones. There was an article from one of the Northwich papers which carried a picture of my Uncle Tony at a charity function. Next to that were two photographs of him, both obviously taken with a long-distance lens.

  I moved on. There were copies of articles he had written for a haulage trade magazine, and any number of pictures of him out with his various girlfriends.

  The whole room was nothing but a museum – a shrine – to my uncle.

  ‘Does this mean wha’ I think it means?’ Andy asked.

  Unable to find the words to answer him, I merely nodded.

  I had learned the bitter truth at last, I thought, as I felt a hard iron band tightening across my chest. I finally understood why she had been waiting outside St John’s College that night. And I knew now why she had lost all control in that dilapidated house in Bristol and attacked Paul Taylor so viciously.

  I’d no idea where she had first met my uncle – perhaps at some kind of security conference, perhaps in a pub – but that didn’t really matter.

  What did matter was that she had become just another one of the long string of mistresses that my uncle had had since Aunt Jane left him. He had got bored with her in the end, of course – he always got bored with his concubines – but, unlike all the others, she had not been able to let go.

  And the bitter truth now facing me was that Marie had never been interested in me at all – I only existed for her because of my connection with him.

  The room was starting to spin before my eyes, and there was a strong taste of bile rising in my gullet. Holding on to the wall for support, I made my way across the lounge to the bathroom. Once there, I leant over the toilet bowl – and was violently sick.

  The first double brandy I’d knocked back in the Bulldog had helped to settle my stomach. The second had done a little to ease the aching in my soul – but not a great deal.

  ‘I’ll be around for as long as you want me to be, Rob,’ Andy McBride said, from across the table. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know it,’ I said, ‘and I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Och, it’s nothin’ ta be grateful aboot,’ Andy replied. ‘I owe you. When I needed it, how many months did you stick to me like glue?’

  ‘Several?’ I speculated.

  ‘For ten months, two weeks an’ three days you never left my side while there was still a chance of me gettin’ my hands on a drink. An’ if ye need the favour returning, you only need to ask.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said.

  But even as I was speaking, I was looking down at my empty brandy glass and thirsting for a refill.

  ‘I’ve been through it all maself, Rob,’ Andy said softly. ‘I can recognize the symptoms creepin’ up when I see them.’

  One more drink, and I would call a halt, I promised myself.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now,’ I told Andy.

  The Scot shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be alone at all. It’s just that given your choice of company, you’d prefer the bottle to me.’

  ‘It’s not that at all. I just need a little quiet time to think things through,’ I protested.

  Andy nodded gravely. ‘Aye, well, you canna help a man if he dusna even want to help himself. I’ll be awa’ noo, but if you want me, you know where you can find me.’

  I watched him leave the pub, his shoulders stooped as if the failure had been his, not mine. I thought of calling him back, but instead, I ordered myself another double brandy.

  Less than an hour ago, I had had hope, I thought. Not much hope – but at least enough to keep me afloat. But now I had seen Marie’s shrine to my uncle, and all of that was gone.

  My mobile phone rang irritatingly in my pocket. I decided to ignore it, but when I pulled it out to hit the off button, I saw that the screen display said my caller was Owen Flint, so, with a sigh, I pressed “answer”.

  ‘Where are you?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Oxford.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I was rather hoping you’d still be in the Cheshire area.’ He paused. ‘Listen, I know you’ve been doing quite a lot of running around recently, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d come up here one last time.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is your cousin Philip. He’s admitted to the killing – even filled us in on some details we’d probably never have uncovered on our own. What he won’t tell us is why he killed Bill Harper.’

  I was tired and dispirited, and I didn’t want to be having this conversation. ‘Does it really matter why?’ I asked.

  ‘Juries are usually a bit unhappy when we can’t give them a motive,’ Flint replied.

  ‘From the way you’ve been talking, I’d have thought you’d got a rock solid case, even if Philip denies the whole thing.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Flint admitted. ‘We don’t need a motive. But I want one – for my own personal satisfaction.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this, Owen?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Philip won’t talk to me – but he says he’s quite willing to answer any questions you might have.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He says it wouldn’t be fair to let you spend the rest of your life not knowing what a bloody moron you’ve been.’

  Yes, I thought, that sounded like Philip. ‘I’ll catch the next train up,’ I said. ‘I should be with you sometime in the late afternoon.’

  Why wouldn’t I?

  It was only appropriate that I should oversee the last tragic act in the Fall of the House of Conroy.

  And when I’d done my duty, I would walk down to the mere, and listen to wind-driven waves gently caressing the shore. But I wouldn’t just stop there on the shore – I’d keep on walking until the water covered my head, and there was no more pain.

  THIRTY

  The walls of the interview room in the detention centre were painted brown up to chest level, and cream from there to the ceiling. The only furniture was an institutional metal table and two metal chairs. I was sitting at one end of the table, and facing me, at the other end, was my cousin Philip. By the door, a bored-looking prison officer was chain-smoking.

  ‘Why did you come?’ Philip asked. ‘Was it because that bastard Flint asked you to – or because you yourself were curious to know why I killed Bill?’

  ‘It was pr
obably a little of both,’ I admitted. ‘But the main reason I’m here is to see if I can do anything to help.’

  ‘Do anything to help?’ Philip repeated. ‘Why should you want to do anything to help me?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you’re one of the few blood relatives I’ve got left,’ I said.

  And because I’d finally come round to accepting what both my Grandmother and Grandfather had told me was true – that whatever Philip had turned into, he wasn’t entirely to blame.

  Philip smirked. ‘Let’s see if you’re quite so willing to help when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. Now where should I begin? Shall I start by telling you what happened that night down by the mere?’

  ‘If that’s the way you want to do it.’

  ‘I was sitting at home, thinking about how much I hated Bill Harper, when it suddenly occurred to me that this was the time of night when he usually took his swim in the mere.’

  ‘Why did you hate him?’ I asked. ‘Was it because you were in love with Susan?’

  Philip shot me a suspicious look. ‘How did you know I was having it off with her?’

  ‘Owen Flint told me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Philip said. ‘You’re old “chums” from your Oxford days, aren’t you? No, I didn’t kill him because I wanted his Enid.’

  ‘Then why …?’

  ‘I’ll come to that later,’ Philip said, with the arrogance of a man who knows he has complete control over the direction the conversation will take and is relishing the power that gives him. ‘I was sitting there, and I suddenly thought to myself, “Why not just get rid of all your problems in one fell swoop?” I went to the garage and picked up the iron bar. I knew what I was doing was dangerous, but I just couldn’t resist it. He made it so easy for me, you see. He knew I wanted him dead, yet he still went swimming in the mere at night. Alone! It was almost as if he wanted me to kill him.’

  Or as if he never imagined for a second that you’d have the guts to go through with it, I thought.

  But I held my peace.

  ‘I walked along the stream until I reached the mere,’ Philip continued. ‘There was a full moon, and I could see him swimming through the water as if he hadn’t got a care in the world. I found where he’d left his clothes, and hid close to them. When he got out of the mere, I crept up behind him and hit him over the head. It was a doddle.’

  ‘What you still haven’t told me is why you killed him,’ I reminded Philip.

  ‘That’s where I’m over a barrel,’ my cousin said bitterly. ‘If I give you my reasons for killing him, then I might as well not have done it at all – but if I don’t give you my reasons, I’ll never get the police to reduce the charge from murder to manslaughter. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘You’re going to have to be much more specific if I’m to make any sense out of it.’

  Philip sighed, as if he didn’t want to have to deal with the idiot child sitting opposite him, but accepted that it was necessary.

  ‘I killed him because he was blackmailing me,’ he said.

  ‘Blackmailing you?’

  ‘Of course! Why else do you think I would have made him joint managing director? It wasn’t because I was fond of him. I didn’t like him at all, and the way he brown-nosed to my father made me sick. So was it because I trusted him? Not a chance in hell of that. He wasn’t loyal – he just knew how to pick the winning side. And that’s why he came to me instead of you – because he was certain that he could get more from me.’

  ‘You mean, he could have blackmailed me, too?’

  Philip shook his head. ‘No, it was quite a different matter with you. But he could still have given you everything you wanted.’

  ‘I’ve already got everything I want,’ I said.

  Except for a grandfather, father and brother I would never see again – and not forgetting the woman I still loved, despite the fact that I was now convinced that she’d only been using me.

  ‘You’ve got everything you want!’ Philip repeated contemptuously. ‘You’ve always been the goody-two-shoes of the family, haven’t you? It’s all come so easily to you.’

  ‘Yes, incredibly easy,’ I said, ‘as long as you’re prepared to overlook the fact that the woman I was going to marry was killed in a horrific accident, and I had a complete mental breakdown that lasted for nearly two years.’

  ‘It’s not my fault you went soft on one of your Enids,’ my cousin said. ‘If you’d been through what I’ve been through, you might have a reason to feel sorry for yourself.’

  ‘I never said you’d had it easy.’

  ‘You didn’t have to put up with your father bringing his tarts into your home at every hour of the night. You’ve never known what it was like to want a mother’s shoulder to cry on – and to know there was no shoulder there for you.’

  ‘Philip, I …’

  ‘I used to walk past your house some nights and see you all through the window – sitting around the table. God, how I envied you. I promised myself, back then, that one day I’d be the one in the privileged position – that I’d find a way to make you all dance to my tune.’

  ‘You can’t make up for your own childhood unhappiness by bringing misery to other people now that you’ve grown up,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe I can’t,’ Philip agreed. ‘But I was prepared to give it a damn good try. Do you want to know the first thing which came into my head when I heard the details of the crash?’

  ‘If you want to tell me, I’m willing to listen.’

  ‘I thought, “I’m sorry John died. I’m sorry because, if he hadn’t, I would have been his boss. I would have had the power over him.” Does that shock you?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But it makes me very sad.’

  Philip’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I don’t want any sympathy from you,’ he said.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I want you to know that, for at least a little while, I had you completely fooled.’

  It was a hollow sort of victory, but I supposed it was all he had left to hang on to.

  ‘How did you have me fooled?’ I asked.

  ‘You remember what happened after that old idiot of a solicitor had read us Grandfather’s will? I was just telling you how I was going to take over Cormorant Publishing and make it into something you would despise, when the phone rang. It was Bill Harper.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Do you also remember what he asked you?’

  ‘He asked me if you were there.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘I think he asked me if the will had been read.’

  Philip nodded his head. ‘That’s right. The bastard knew just the right psychological moment to break his dirty little secret.’

  ‘What secret?’

  Philip shook his head in disgust. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? I’d have worked it out long before now.’

  ‘I’m not very good at working things out,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t work out what was going on with John. I had no idea …’

  ‘This isn’t about John,’ Philip said angrily. ‘It’s about me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Now where was I? Oh yes. Didn’t it bother you, Rob, that immediately after I’d talked to Bill Harper, I offered to give you full independence to run your company the way you wanted to?’

  ‘You explained to me that the threat of a strike in the furniture factory had made you realize running the other businesses would be a full time job, without interfering in Cormorant Publishing,’ I said.

  Philip’s lip twisted again. ‘And you actually believed me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But perhaps that was because I wanted to believe you.’

  ‘You didn’t even bother to check up on whether there really was a chance of a strike?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ my cousin told me. ‘The real reason I gave you carte blanche with Cormorant was bec
ause, after what that bastard Harper had told me, I had to do something to keep you quiet.’

  ‘Quiet about what? I didn’t know any secrets that might harm you.’

  Another sigh of exasperation. ‘All right, perhaps what I really mean is, I wanted to stop you making a noise.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I wanted to make sure that you didn’t contest Grandfather’s will, you cretin.’

  ‘But how could I have contested it? It seemed to me that it was really very straightforward.’

  ‘Spell out the terms for me,’ my cousin said.

  ‘You know them as well as I do.’

  ‘Spell them out anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, this interview is over.’

  ‘You inherited the voting shares from your father because my father was dead, but if he hadn’t been, they would have gone to him.’

  ‘And who would have inherited them when he died?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘And when you’d gone?’

  ‘If I had a son over thirty-five, they’d go to him.’

  ‘So control of the company would have been lost to my side of the family forever.’

  ‘I suppose so, although it’s always possible if I didn’t have a son …’

  ‘Did Bill Harper come to your hospital room after the crash and tell you what had happened?’ my cousin asked.

  I pictured him standing in the doorway, eagerly reluctant (or perhaps reluctantly eager) to give me the details – and I shuddered at the thought of it.

  ‘Yes, I can see from the way you’re reacting that he did,’ Philip said. ‘I thought he might have done. Harper wasn’t the kind of man to launch his campaign before he’d done the essential groundwork. And since you’re an important – albeit stupid – player in the game, giving you his version of the truth would be an essential part of that groundwork.’

  ‘What game? What groundwork?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Philip said. ‘Listen, if Harper could have seen an advantage in telling you what actually happened, he’d have done so. But since he could gain more personally by lying, that’s what he did. Now do you see?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who died first – according to Harper?’